


The Apples

by roaming_aster



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Metamorphoses - Ovid
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22615960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roaming_aster/pseuds/roaming_aster
Summary: Atalanta races, and loses, and leaves.
Relationships: Atalanta/Hippomenes | Melanion (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	The Apples

**Author's Note:**

> This is _finally_ the first of my contributions to Amy Pistone's Roamin' Romans initiative, which is meant to raise funds for The Sportula, a project that provides micro-grants to classics students all over the world, no questions asked. Go follow them on Twitter [@Libertinopatren](https://twitter.com/Libertinopatren)!

Their mistake is thinking that this is about the race. That it’s about them beating her, conquering her. That she is the prize, not the contestant.

Here’s the thing: the race is unwinnable. There is no doubt about this. They cannot outrun her. And so they die, because she has run with the gods, and she doesn’t care enough for mercy.

It’s not about the race. She wouldn’t give them an unwinnable contest. She has run with the gods, and she could just say no to her father, no to everyone, take the boar’s pelt with her and leave. She does not need to get married to reign, and she does not need to reign to be a hero. And still, she has announced a race.

When Hippomenes shows her the first apple, she thinks he may have understood. When he throws it off the side of the road, she knows she can’t choose not to stop for it, and she knows that this is the game. The apples are beautiful, golden and shining with a light she has not seen since kissing Artemis’ breasts, and she wants to play.

When the race ends, she’s holding the apples, and she’s beaten. Everyone is celebrating Hippomenes’ victory, but he looks at her and says, ‘Keep them. They’re for you.’

***

The apples are in a bowl in her chambers. He never looks at them when he enters, not beyond a distracted glance. He’s not a bad lover. He’s not a bad husband. He’s not a bad king.

The first time they talk after sex, instead of just basking in the afterglow, he looks at her with the same distracted glance he has for the apples. ‘There are some parts of your body I really like,’ he says, and his hand slides down from her breasts to her waist. ‘Others, well. A pity, isn’t it,’ he says, patting her thighs, glancing at her arms, at muscles she grew into since living with the bears in the forest.

She has run with the gods. It takes her a week to tell him he can’t touch her any more.

He tries to protest. He claims they are married, that he has rights. She has him pinned flat on the floor in seconds. She has killed the Calydonian boar, and he knows, and he leaves.

When he’s out the door, she wraps herself tight in the boar’s pelt and stares at the apples in their bowl across the room.

***

‘These belong to me.’ Hera’s face shines like the apples, shines like Artemis’, shines like home.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘You can take them, Lady.’

‘You don’t want them?’ Hera asks, and you don’t lie to a god.

‘I do,’ she says, ‘but they never belonged to me.’

‘I have a garden,’ Hera says. ‘For the apples. The daughters of Atlas guard it for me. They still will, even though Heracles bested them. They will, because they belong to me.’

Atalanta knows she’s not talking about the apples any more. She nods, and she waits.

‘Would you like to see my garden?’

‘I would be very honoured, Lady.’

***

The plants in the garden shine like a god’s flesh, like the faces and arms of the Hesperides. The apples, the leaves, the fruits. The air, the water.

You can run in the garden, Atalanta learns. She can run, and she does not have to stop to pick up apples, as their glow is all around her now. It belongs to her, as she belongs to this place.

Hera smiles at her, and her smile glows. This is her home.


End file.
